This day was inevitable. Today, my sanctuary was violated. My cast was rendered assailable.
A dull rotating hand saw carved a crude window in the fibre-glass shell, exposing my wound for the first time in three weeks. Evenly sewn stitches were removed one by one from parched, tender flesh. Flesh that had found a sense of peace in its undisturbed solace of inactivity. Although gentle and amiable, the nurse had no concept of the massive, psychological security breach she initiated.
I need this rupture healed - yet - I want this joint to live in greater safety than I have provided - yet - I need to be stronger than before - yet - I want the strength of the cast - yet - I need to be free of this crutch, and these crutches - yet - I harbour conflict within: a desperate fight to step forward, somehow without stepping out, just yet.
I am constantly aware of the tendon, convinced that what I feel with every passing second is it slowly binding itself together, at a molecular level. It is equally fascinating as it is disconcerting. It commands me to rest, while preventing me from sleep.
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